In This Life
by SnoopMaryMar
Summary: What happens when the bullpen is empty and there's no one left to keep the chills at bay?
1. Chapter 1

TI: In This Life.

AU: SnoopMaryMar

DI: NCIS is not mine.

RA: T

SU: What happens when the bullpen is empty and there's no one left to keep the chills at bay?

* * *

Walk in and shut the door, flip the locks and the lights. Hang keys on the hook over the old mission-style cabinet beside the closet. Badge and i.d. in the dish on top of it, along with wallet and spare change. Backpack on the floor beside field boots. Ready for the inevitable 3AM call.

Avoid looking in the mirror. It only reminds you of reality.

Roll your shoulders against the stiffness that just seems to get worse as the days go by. Hang up your coat next to the others in the half-empty closet and head up the stairs to strip off what's left of Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.

Off goes the shirt and suit into the dry-cleaning bag, the rest into your laundry bin. On goes jeans and an old tee. Gun into gun safe.

Back downstairs as what's left of Tony DiNozzo. Plug in the phone to charge it. Check the machine while flipping through the junk mail and sorting out the few bills.

Car. Telemarketer. Abby. Abby again. Frat brother. Abby again. Nothing else.

Take out the trash. Check the backyard for balls from the neighbour's kid. Throw them back over the fence. Grab a beer from the fridge. Open the freezer and examine the selection of single serving meals. Least loser-like choice?

Ten minutes later, fried chicken, potatoes and green beans and another beer and the evening news. More death, more destruction, even less hope than ever before, it seems.

Back upstairs, toss the laundry in. Clean the bathroom. Grab the dry-cleaning and put it downstairs for the morning so you don't forget it. Running short on shirts and after the ribbing over the blue sweater...

Dust and run the vaccuum. Call Abby? No. Call about the car first. Need to see how much that's going to cost. Might be better off trading it in and getting something else.

Hell. $1,500 for that? Guess that sets Saturday up - car lots and slimy dealers. Joy.

Wipe down counter and start dishwasher. Must remember to ask next door what they think of their Volvo - seems to be running well.

Call Mark back now or after Abby?

Mark first. Sheila got mad last time you called after 9.

_Hey, it's Tony. How are you? _

_Good, I'm good. So you said you had news?_

Flop back onto sofa.

_Oh. I thought she liked me at least a little when we met at your barbeque. Damn. She seemed really nice. You sure she won't give me her number? Oh. Oh. Okay. Thanks anyways._

_Nah. I have to work. Nah, it's fine. Thanks, Mark._

Deep breaths.

I am more than good enough for her precious Juliet. Hell, it's just a date, not a proposal!

Deep breaths. Sheila is **not** evil. Sheila is **not** evil. Deep breaths.

Flip tv on. Flick-flick-flick-flick.

Documentary on PBS looks good.

Jeez. Need to let Gibbs know about this - families driven out of Mexico and across border as refugees by cartels. This could get bad - marines from there could be at risk on leave. Ugh.

Hell. Abby.

_Hi, Abs. _

_No, I'm not avoiding you. I just hadn't called you back yet. I had some stuff to do first. What's up?_

_Nah. Not in the mood. I'm kinda tired. But if you need a ride home, you call me._

_Can't. I have fairly intense plans for Saturday._

_Gotta look for new wheels. _

_Well, it's not like I spent much time looking when I bought it, Abby. _

_I didn't mean it like that. I just needed a car and it fit what I'd just lost._

_Something practical. And don't say it. I know. But I don't care, I just want something that isn't going to cost an arm and a leg in repairs and gas!_

_Yeah, I know Cranky!Tony! isn't your favourite Tony. _

_Because I'm tired and my shoulders hurt. Which means that the phone will ring at 3AM because some moron's gone and gotten himself killed._

_Yep. That kind of ache. You feeling hinky too?_

_Well, that tears it. Dead man walking somewhere. _

_You be careful and call if you need a ride. _

_Yeah, I love you too, Abs. Bye._

Crap. Forgot. Laundry needs to go into the dryer.

Flick-flick-flick through the channels, looking for something to kill the silence. Nothing.

Flip off the tv, flip on the computer. Head to website.

Look through potential matches. No. Hell, no. No, no, no, no, maybe...

Hey, now.

Quickly read the profile. Laugh. Send ping message asking for further details.

Shut off computer.

Get coffee-maker ready for the morning. Get out travel mug just in case. Grab phone and charger.

Back upstairs. Shower. Brush teeth. Use inhaler as per Brad Pitt, three inhales of meds. Sit on edge of tub until hacking coughing fit passes. Put inhaler back on counter. Crap - out of refills. Call that in right now.

_Brad, it's Tony DiNozzo. Sorry for calling so late but I just realized I'm out of refills on my night inhaler, which is half empty. Can you call in an updated scrip to the pharmacy or do you need me to come in? Please let me know. Thanks._

Pyjamas on and into bed.

Should've turned on the electric blanket first. Hate cold sheets.

Late news - world still sucks. Lights off, tv off, phone close by.

Shifting closer to centre of the bed. Less empty that way.

_Maybe when I wake up, there will be someone to have breakfast with._


	2. Chapter 2

TI: In This Life 2.

AU: SnoopMaryMar

DI: NCIS is not mine.

RA: T

SU: What happens when the bullpen is empty and there's no one left to keep the chills at bay?

* * *

You wrestle with the cart (_why do the wheels on these things never quite work?_) at the entrance to the grocery store, a place that never failed to make you feel inadequate because you were there by yourself.

It was the reason for your former take-out addiction - it was easier to order in than feel like a total loser when you went through the 10 items or less checkout every time you did your groceries. But age and a slowing metabolism combined with Ducky's incessant nagging had worn you down.

The cooking course from Abby at Christmas had definitely helped too. At least you knew how to use your stove now.

You pull out your list, feeling like an imposter the whole time. You know there's some invisible sign floating over your head screaming 'pitiful bachelor' to all the other people there.

The list is something you quickly learnt made this exercise much less agonizing. At least it made you look more in control and capable.

Okay.

Fruits and vegetables.

Apples. Oranges. Plums. Peaches. Strawberries. Blueberries. Bananas. Tomatoes. Zucchini. Celery. Carrots. Potatoes. Peppers. Garlic. Onions. Herbs.

Lettuce - hmm. Spring mix or the baby arugula?

What dressings are in the fridge? Do you still have the raspberry dressing Abby brought over? That was really good...you think for a minute, mentally opening your fridge door.

Yup. It's beside the mustard.

Arugula it is.

You're reaching for the pre-sliced squash chunks when she turns the corner of the aisle.

She's cute. Really cute. And she has a hairband thing in her brown hair that's kind of hot.

You shift plans and go look at the smoothies, wondering if it would annihilate your chances if you snagged one of the kiwi ones she was looking at. Did women like men who liked kiwis?

Okay. Smile at her and quickly excuse yourself as you reach for the smoothie.

_Yes!_

Man, she's got a great smile. And big blue eyes. And really cute freckles on her nose.

You rack your brain, desperately trying to remember what it was you said back when this was easy but a quick glance into her cart spots diapers just as the light makes the gold band on her hand flash.

_Dammit._

You smile, nod and push off.

Moving onto breads, avoiding the pastry bins on peril of more Ducky-lectures.

12 Grain or Honey Flax? What kind of lunch meat was on the list? You rapidly scan your list and decide to try the honey flax. It might taste good with the turkey in this week's flyer.

Into the cart you go, lunch for the week. Hey, if the weather's nice, maybe you'll take your sandwich over to the Mall and people-watch. The crowded steps at the memorial would still be better than eating at your desk over cold cases. You don't have to stay in the office by yourself, just because Tim and Abby have each other and Ziva prefers to eat with Ducky or Gibbs now.

After all, there's no point in springing for lunch by yourself. You're not that big a loser, taking a case file into a diner to read while you eat an overpriced hamburger and eavesdrop on the laughter at other tables, just so you can feel like people know you exist.

You hit the deli counter and spot some really nice looking proscuito that you would totally love to eat. But it's way too pricey and it's just not an option, what with the mortgage and the stupid car payment you know is going to go up after this weekend. You settle for the turkey, some pastrami and the rosemary ham, with some light swiss and marble cheese slices. You decide to change tonight's dinner plans when you see the finely grated parmesan and grab a large container before backtracking to grab some of the dried gourmet mushroom mix and some lemons.

The fish counter is more promising. Especially with the blonde in the skirt suit and the surprisingly hot dark plastic frames. You take a number and smile at her as you both wait your turns.

Nothing.

Okay. You know you're flashing the available hand and have a lot of healthy goodness in the buggy. So why no reaction?

_Oh._

You smile and nod at the skinny-looking, underfed guy who strides forward to take her hand and kiss her cheek and continue to wait your turn.

Digging a pen out of your pocket, you quickly (and slightly viciously) score off fish before hitting the butcher counter.

Mmmm. Beef.

That was easy - steak and lean ground. You stop and quickly grab the flattened seasoned chicken, suddenly looking forward to dinner tomorrow night. Maybe you'll try that soup recipe from the class with the leftovers?

You grab eggs and the low-sodium turkey bacon you've discovered you really like (and God help you if the guys ever find out you like it better than the real stuff!) before darting up the cereal aisle.

You toss your Cheerios in, followed quickly by the apple and cinnamon instant oatmeal.

Cranberry juice. Vegetable juice packs. Irish breakfast tea.

As much as you agree with Ducky in principle on the 'evil aisle', you just can't help it. You can't give up the tortilla chips or those little chocolate bars. The homemade salsa should get you off the hook if Herr Doktor makes a surprise inspection again.

You avoid making eye contact with the diaper-lady when you meet beside the condiments, even though you'd love to look into those pretty eyes again.

You aren't into that kind of self-abuse.

The next aisle reminds you of your Nonna, though it'll never taste the same.

Tagliatelle. Farfalle. Penne. Linguine.

Maybe you'll try the pasta recipes out of that book she gave you when you finished school sometime soon, when you're not on call. Because no matter where it's made or what language is on the package, it still doesn't taste right.

Canned tomatoes. Canned artichokes. Pickles. Canned chicken broth.

Pesto in a jar (_Nonna, forgive me_...).

You quickly backtrack when you realize you forgot the arborio rice, apologizing profusely when you nearly ram the scrawny guy's cart.

_See - charm __and__ good manners. Your loss, blondie._

You grab a couple of cans of soup before sprinting through the rest of the aisles (_where in the hell is the sunshine-scented liquid detergent!_) and into the frozen foods section.

Potato wedges, some quick microwave dinners for those nights when his bones ached and his heart bled for some poor bastard in Ducky's morgue.

Pretend you don't see the ice cream, because the only thing more pitiable than a cart full of frozen dinners is a man with several pints of Ben and Jerry's and no wedding ring.

That sick, solitary glumness starts to surge like a tide and you grab the strawberry prebiotic yogurts, the OJ, some of those little red circles of cheese and the skim milk before sprinting for the cash.

You stand there, watching the brunette and the blonde with the scrawny guy ahead of you and wonder what the hell is wrong with you that you don't have that.

Anyone who thought you could meet somebody in these places was sniffing the air fresheners.

* * *

_This has gone from a one-shot to an arc, thanks to the wonderful reviews!_


	3. Chapter 3

TI: In This Life 3

AU: SnoopMaryMar

DI: Don't own 'em, wish I did.

RA: T+ for profanity.

SU: What happens when the bullpen is empty and there's no one left to keep the chills at bay?

AN: Listening to "Airplanes, Part II", by B.o.B., featuring Hayley Williams and Eminem. Had crap week at work. :"[

* * *

You slam your door so hard the hook in the wall for your keys pops out. You hear a neighbour yell but you just don't fucking care.

You've never been this angry. Never felt this betrayed.

You busted your ass for _three days_ working on that lead. You worried it over in your head with every breath, crawled into a mindset no sane person would ever want to even think about, became somebody else, all to understand the suspect.

And your fucking probie _wrecked_ it.

All the work you'd put in, all the research. _Everything_.

You'd asked for his opinion just to see if your theory was right. You were so tired and sickened that you just needed to be sure before you took the chance and took it to Gibbs.

The minute you take five to go splash some water on your face, the little MIT-loving bastard went to Gibbs and told him everything, neglecting to mention that _you_ were the one who'd done all the work, _you_ were the one who'd dug deep and dug dirty to bring the idea to fruition.

_The fuckers!_

You realize you're panting, muscles tense and twitching from the unhinged anger dragging you out into the undertow.

Oh, you tried to hide, hide the hurt and the heartbreak and fucking fury that tried to goad you into whacking the bastard one back after he smacked you one, silently declaring you were once more weighed and found wanting.

But the probie knew. He knew how much damage had been done to you today.

That's why you believed him when he squeaked out that it was an honest mistake, he'd done it because he thought you were right and wanted to help. That he'd said nothing because he'd assumed they knew what you had been doing for days with that cold case. That you hadn't been watching some baby in a hulled watermelon on youtube or other stupid shit instead of working.

McGee had 'fessed up almost immediately, once he'd realized what they thought.

But it was just too late.

It just hurt too damn much.

Not one person thought you were smart enough, good enough to have fought your way through that case, through all the secrets and lies and misdirections, to find the truth. After all_:_

_You. Aren't. Gibbs_.

You're just a pretty face. Comic relief. Ballast.

And if you'd shared your thought, they could've caught the bastard sooner. 'Cause there's no way it would've taken that long if you'd left the thinking to them.

There's this fluttering feeling around your heart, right where your lungs meet your airway. It's like some kind of eel or bird, flapping away like crazy, trying to escape. It's that something deep inside you, something ugly and remorseless. It's writhing against your clenched teeth and jaws as they forcibly hold it deep, deep, deep down in that dark, dark, dark place you bury betrayal and grief and hatred and anger.

The place you hide your mother.

The place you tried to bury your father.

The place you buried Kate.

The place you buried Paula.

The place you lost Jeanne.

The place you rail at Jenny.

The place you put your broken heart when Gibbs just left you standing there like a moron with a "You'll do".

The place you put your wounded pride and self-respect when he came back and kicked your ass back down.

The place you put the grief when one of the few people you've ever trusted told you that you weren't good enough to lead.

The place you put the anguish and vitriolic rage from when you were flat on your back with a gun pushed against your body by someone you thought had your back, always.

You feel the bones in your fingers grind together and realize that your hand hurts. You've still got your keys in your hand.

You toss your keys into the bowl and look around at the, the... _detritus_ that is your life.

You can't do this anymore. You just can't.

You aren't _stupid_. You aren't _worthless_. You aren't _weak_.

You earned your stripes a long time ago.

You hurl your backpack down, kicking your shoes off in opposite directions and let your coat hit the floor beside them before storming up the stairs.

The shirt you just destroyed hangs forlornly off the footboard of your bed, its buttons scattered haphazardly across the carpet. The suit lies abandoned on the floor.

What in the _hell_ is the point of it all? Why are you still trying? At what point in your fucked-up little life did emotional abuse, disrespect and rejection become normal?

Your knees suddenly turn to jelly, dropping you to the floor beside your dresser. You lean heavily against the dark wood, clenching your fists again as you swallow down the whimper that threatens to become a full-fledged howl.

All you wanted was a 'good job'. All you needed was a smidgen of validation, a hint of approval. _Something_ that meant _something_.

You got nothing. Not even a nod.

You suck in a deep breath, noticing your hands are shaking and that the room's gotten awfully cold all of a sudden.

Clambering upright, you meet your own reflection in the mirror.

And that's when you know.

Right now? You're waxen. Shiny-eyed. Jaw clenched into stone like the Hoover Dam.

But you're also tall; lanky but well-muscled. You're good-looking and you have a nice smile. You can make people laugh and you can make them feel safe. You're smart; maybe not book-smart, but the kind of smart that gets shit done and wins when winning matters most. You are good at your job and you are successful.

You _did_ deserve better than what you got today. You _do_ deserve to come home to a warm home with noises and people and things that might eat your shoelaces.

Damned if you aren't going to do something about it.

This ends _now_.


	4. Chapter 4

TI: In This Life 4.

AU: SnoopMaryMar

DI: NCIS is not mine.

RA: T

SU: What happens when the bullpen is empty and there's no one left to keep the chills at bay?

* * *

The white shirt. It's the staple of any decent men's wardrobe.

Classic. Stylish. Crisp. Simple.

And arguably the sexiest thing a woman could wear in the morning.

_Not that you've seen that in your kitchen, recently._

Regardless, you just can't go wrong with a white shirt. Ever.

But...

White shirts, especially in your line of work, equal a lot of laundry. And ironing. And you are enough your mother's son to care about your whites being their whitest. It's not being fussy, either. When they just don't gleam anymore, with buttons loose or popped and the cuffs ever-so-slightly frayed, it's time to bite the bullet and hit the mall.

The insides of this man's Armani deserve better.

Picking up the keys, you can't help but smile as you head out the door.

As much as you should have gone with the adult, practical choice, you still love Detroit too much. You could never abandon about the people who brought the world the miracle that is the Mustang.

You love your Mustang. You love its beautiful blue colour, the purr of the V8 engine, the smooth cornering that sends shivers up your spine. You have been in love with this car since you were six years old and your mother let you sit on her lap and help her park her 1967 blue Mustang convertible in the garage.

_You smile a little as the scent-memory of Chanel and face powder flashes through you. As a chortling laugh and a phantom squeeze around your middle brings a lump to your throat. _

You'd been a bit nervous when you broke down and fell in love all over again. After all, it was _the_ sports car, a miracle of engineering, something to be worshipped and coddled.

It screamed the exact opposite of what you felt you needed to have to sell yourself.

Yet it worked. They were looking again, smiling at you again. Giving you a chance to get your foot in the door again.

_All without having to abandon that part of yourself._

You deliberately park in front of the Sephora store, knowing security monitors that part of the lot the most.

_With your track record, you try not to tempt fate._

You ford your way through the ambling crowd, wincing as you catch sight of yourself in a window. The t-shirt's not bad but the jeans?

Yeah, not so much.

Clearly, this is going to take longer and cost more than you had intended.

Good thing you decided to raid the trust fund your father _didn't_ know about (_thank you, Uncle Clive!_) to top up your trade-in, rather than finance the rest.

It feels like hours before you finally get out of Neiman Marcus with your new crisp white shirts.

And conveniently, the denim sale solved the jeans problem.

You grab a kiwi smoothie, wolf down a bearclaw and after a difficult hour picking out some new DVDs, wander down towards Sephora and the exit when you catch sight of the sale sign.

Hmm. Dockers has a sale?

You mentally page through your closet (_and McGee thought you were crazy to get a custom-built closet system? Ha! At least __you__ didn't buy the exact same thing twice due to a lack of proper storage!_) and decide it might make a nice change from the suits.

You grab a couple of pairs and try them on. You go up a size (_gah!_) and decide to go with the sand and the grey. You snap up a couple of their henleys, too, before deciding to quit while you're ahead.

You're standing in line and before you know it, you're chatting with the incredibly cute blonde in front of you, Marnie.

Marnie with the brother just your size, would this shirt fit you, Marnie.

_Hello, Marnie. _

This is good. She's clearly enjoying this and - score one for the home team! - no wedding ring!

You are _so_ glad you went shopping today.

You're just working up the nerve to offer up coffee (_when did this become this hard?_) as she's being rung through when it happens. You feel your butt vibrate and pray that it says anything but Gibbs on the display.

No. Such. Luck.

You desperately scan the counter, gently touching her shoulder to get her to wait just one second. You sigh with relief when you spot it. Snatching the pad of paper and the pen from the store clerk, you scribble your name and all your numbers as well as your email on the pad and hand it to her with a smile and a _please call me_ before answering your phone.

_Friggin' Rock Creek Park._


	5. Chapter 5

TI: In This Life 5.

AU: SnoopMaryMar

DI: NCIS is not mine.

RA: T

SU: What happens when the bullpen is empty and there's no one left to keep the chills at bay?

* * *

He leaned forward across the gurney and gently stroked his fingers once, twice, three times across Dana's forehead. The sweat beading on her brow smeared across his fingertips. Her eyes fluttered open at his touch, pained and frightened, and locked onto his, seeking something he couldn't give her. He didn't bother smiling or talking; she was well past that point now, had been for hours. Anyways, they'd said everything that needed to be said already.

He tightened his hand on hers and squeezed. Why did he meet her now? Why?

The minute she'd come up to him at the railing, he'd known. And her eyes said she knew too. In the car on the way to the bookstore, they had connected so quickly, bonded. Similar interests, same sense of humour.

It was like kismet.

He knew he so easily could have loved her. Ziva didn't get that, get him; never would if these past few days were any indication. If she did, she'd have realized that he found Dana because he understood her, her life. It was like a mirror of his own - work, tv, music in place of movies, but essentially the same.

He'd meant what he'd said - he felt like he knew her.

His mind (_heart?_) had gone into overdrive when he'd finally really heard her voice. He'd seen their things meshing together - his plasma with her fireplace beneath it. His nonno's big old desk on the other side of her piano.

Nights on the sofa watching documentaries and films. Coffee and breakfast on sunday morning while they watched her latest interview. Traveling to Australia with someone who wouldn't whine about the flight or about climbing the suspension bridge with him. Dinners, strolls, _groceries_.

God, they even ordered the same damn pizza from the same damn place!

He sat, watching her chest flutter with the effort to keep breathing, until finally Dana Hutton slipped out of his life the same way she'd come in and left him the same way every woman who'd ever really mattered had:

Broken.

* * *

He nursed yet another jam-jar of bourbon in the dark of the basement, Gibbs having left him the bottle when he'd headed upstairs.

He'd gotten so out of practice with the dating thing. It's literally been years since he did this. Since Jeanne. It used to be so easy and now? It was like his nonno's descriptions of the fight to retake Rome; the things he had to resort to now just to get a first date with an eligible, attractive, intelligent woman.

He used to be so confident. Now? He got so nervous, scared even, when he tried to get a date with the kind of woman he wanted in his life. And he couldn't help but ask himself the same question Ziva had: what would an intelligent, ambitious, successful and independent woman get out of him?

Him. The middle-aged, wild-card cop with a juvenile sense of humour, an obsession with movies and intimacy issues. Needy-Tony.

The guy who wants cosy, simple, boy-meets-girl, boy-and-girl get fairytale. He wanted the home, the family, the whole picket-fence life.

He wanted those women to see him the way he wanted to be seen (_the way Jeanne and Dana had seen him?_): potential husband, potential father.

He didn't want to be the guy-of-the-week on Sex In The City. He didn't want casual or occasional. He didn't want no-strings-attached. He wanted it to be okay for him to be mushy. He wanted serious, committed, very long term.

Like, 'til death long term.

Brenda Bittner was just a warm body he used to scratch an itch when his hand just wasn't cutting it anymore and she'd let him in knowing that.

And he hated that he'd fallen into her bed. He wasn't proud of it but _goddammit_ sometimes he just needed to be touched!

He could talk, oh how he could talk! But he didn't want to talk panties off easy ones anymore. That wasn't what he wanted. It was ironic; he'd never been one to turn down a sure thing but he was now.

He'd chosen AMC over T and A and he was okay with that.

He had Tony Curtis and Cary Grant on a pink submarine, with a hot, curvy blonde talking about turning the right corner.

He just wanted to know:

When was he finally going to get to turn his corner?


	6. Chapter 6

_**TI:** IN THIS LIFE 6_

_**AU: ** SnoopMaryMar_

_**DI:** Not mine. Talk to DPB and CBS if you want to buy them for me._

_**SU:** What happens when the bullpen is empty and there's no one left to keep the chills at bay?_

* * *

Singing quietly under your breath as you kick the door shut behind you, juggling the groceries haphazardly into the kitchen. It had been so long since you'd felt this kind of excitement, this sense of hope bubbling up inside your chest. Quickly unpacking and getting out the stuff you'll need to wow, you mentally thank God the cleaning service had been through yesterday. That was why you had the chance to do what you rarely if ever got to do for anybody - cook. No one ever wanted to come over for dinner, not even Abby who'd signed you up for the cooking lessons in the first place!

Quickly slicing and dicing and stirring and breading, with one eye on the clock the whole time. Uncorking the beautiful Russian River pinot noir you pray she's going to appreciate to let it breathe, then dashing upstairs to shower and change.

As you build up the lather, it occurs to you that it's been *years* since you've been that confident, that willing to push the line to get a date. But there's something about her that draws you like ants at a picnic. It was more than her beauty or her spunk or her sense of humour that grabbed at you. It's that she's open; she shares, she *talks*. Having a conversation with her was so much easier than what you're used to. There were no hoops to jump through, no pushing and prodding to be done, no words to be weighed because they'll be used against you when you least expect it as a way to drive you away.

The conversation had been a partnership, an equal relationship. It wasn't what you'd become accustomed to, it wasn't all give on your part with no take to make it worth your while.

Roughly toweling your hair dry and for some reason, you leave it as-is. You also ignore the razor and the cologne and just brush your teeth before heading back into the bedroom. Staring into the closet, nerves you haven't felt for way too long spring up.

Bypassing the suits without a second thought, you head straight to the casual section.

Jeans would be good, but would that make you look like this is too casual, too laidback, like this doesn't matter? Ah, lightbulb! Rummaging quickly, you finally find the grey khakis from the mall a few months ago. Tear the tags off and...?

Yes. That's it. These sell the image you know you're kind of desperate to sell tonight: good prospect, worth investing time in.

More than just a frat-boy.

Pulling on a navy polo and some socks, you quickly give the bedroom a once-over (just in case!) and feeling strangely sheepish, check the date on the box of condoms in the nightstand.

Still two months to go, okay!

You dart downstairs, check on dinner, then quickly set the table. On the spur of the moment, you find yourself digging into the drawer at the bottom of the pantry, pulling out a box that hasn't been opened in a very long time. Reverently unwrapping the set of silver candlesticks, setting them on the table and lighting the candles, you step back.

You never had a chance to give them to Kate, this thank-you for being there under the blue lights. You hadn't been able to return them or give them to someone else; the thought of it just made you feel sick inside. So they'd been consigned to the drawer that held a rice cooker and a power sander, seemingly destined to remain there until you either moved on or joined her.

Until tonight.

Kate would be happy to see you right now. Here you are, making dinner and not putting on a front. Determined to be yourself, to not be the Tony DiNozzo you feel you have to be at work so often. Determined because you want somebody to like you for who you are, not for who you think you have to be - their class clown, their punching bag, their big brother.

Jolting slightly as the buzzer rings, and takking a deep breath, you step lightly towards the door. Looking through the peephole, you smile as you twist the handle.

"Hi, come on in, EJ."

* * *

Heh. Heh. Heh.


End file.
